


Always Mine

by Scattyuk



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV), The Borgias (Showtime TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, recrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scattyuk/pseuds/Scattyuk
Summary: She ran a hand down the length of his spine, feeling the sweat under her fingers. His long curls fell into her face, his breath still ragged against her skin. “We are Borgias,” she said at last. “And there will never be an escape.”





	Always Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written while listening to Ezio's Family from Assassin's Creed II: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSVHx23ByhM

 

 

“And how long would he have lived, brother, if we had not killed him first?”

Cesare looked faintly ill. “Don’t.”

“ _How long_? If we had not shamed him into dying on your sword, in my arms. How long until you would have killed him anyway?” She walked across to the window, her eyes fixed on the rooves of Nepi. “Don’t sit there and ask my forgiveness for a crime you would have committed with or without my blessing.”

“He had been making enemies – involving himself in the Colonna and Orsini feuds, talking against the French, sending reports to King Federigo. If you wanted him safe you should have kept him-“

“You dare to say that?!” she rounded on him. “You, who set watch on us day and night-“

“On _you_. To keep _you_ safe. I didn’t give a damn about him.” Cesare’s lip curled. “He couldn’t protect himself, let alone you and Giovanni. But I wanted you safe while I dealt with the Sforzas.”

“And once they were dealt with.  How long, Cesare, until Michelotto met him in the dark one night?”

Cesare flinched. At length he said quietly, “It would not have been Michelotto.”

“Of course,” she said bitterly. “They say you have a new assassin now.”

He stood and reached to slide his hand round her neck, his thumb along her jaw. She closed her eyes, arched into his touch. “Days,” he said at last. “It would have been days at most.”

A tear tracked her cheek, running across his hand. “And so how can you ask me to forgive?” she asked.

He said nothing; he did not need to say a word as he pulled her against him, his lips moving across her eyelids, a gentle touch of his nose against hers, and then captured her lips in his, teeth and tongues expressing a sharp edged heat they had lacked before. There would be no laughter this time.

*

There had been no laugher that night in the Palazzo Santa Maria either. No words. There was nothing to be said beyond “ _Mine_ …”  He had pulled her into his arms, had a bath filled in a guest suite, ordered every last servant from the villa. And then he had bathed her. Abandoned the bloodstained robe on the floor, peeled her chemise slowly from her in the water, run his fingers across her skin and through her hair. She had been naked and as clean as he had promised when he lifted her onto the bed, and she had not spoken a word. But her hands had gripped his clothes as he kissed her, had pulled at laces and buttons. And she had gasped aloud as his weight came fully onto her, her legs wrapping around him and her hips moving against his. She had cried his name at the end, her voice breaking onto a sob as she sank back and turned her face away.

Later, when the shock and the throbbing pulse of desire had faded, she would not see him. He had kicked his heels in her halls, a hundred men awaiting him in the piazza, and still she would not see him. “Give her time,” their mother had said, never knowing the guilt that lay within her grief. And so he had led his men back into the Romagna, to Cesena and Rimini and Faenza and beyond, and he had taken citadels and installed Spanish governers to rule towns who had loved him and chanted his name in the streets. Until he heard that his sister had left Rome, and was walled up with grief in Nepi.

“Don’t you have more castles to knock down?” she had asked him as he stood before her in the courtyard.

“They can wait. For you, they will wait.”

*

She ran a hand down the length of his spine, feeling the sweat under her fingers. His long curls fell into her face, his breath still ragged against her skin. “We are Borgias,” she said at last. “And there will never be an escape.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I could have stayed with Charlotte. You could have chosen a life in Naples. But we neither of us wanted to escape, sister.”

“Aut Caesar aut nihil,” she murmured.

“That also. But there is no castle, Lucrezia, no battle, no step in conquering all Italy that cannot wait if you need me.”

Her hand drifted down to her abdomen, softly rounded. “And if I need you, now, to take me to that fishing village, where no one knows us? To be a farmer, and a father.”

“Look at me.” She glanced up as he leaned to kiss her. “It would never satisfy you, sister. Without Rome, without the power to protect your family. You must return to the Vatican. Give Giovanni our father’s protection,” his hand followed hers, “and let this be born a prince of Naples in the full recognition of the Pope, with no doubts, no questions for idle tongues. And I…” he kissed her once more. “I will carve out a kingdom and I will make you a queen.”

“Yours?”

He smiled for the first time, his eyes alight as he gazed at her. “Mine,” he agreed. “Always mine.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ironically Alfonso d'Aragona really was murdered by Michelotto Corella, but I'm sticking with the Showtime inaccuracies although I've referred to the real life likely reasons for the first attempt on Alfonso's life, which Cesare denied being involved with. Like the show, I've condensed events with more of the Romagna campaign squeezed into 4 months. Lucrezia really did go to Nepi while grieving her husband, but of course her son Rodrigo was born before his father died and had been conceived while Cesare was in France. But hey, Showtime...


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